Death Wish

by Maureen Carter

  Something in his voice made her turn to look. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Maybe an old school tie, then?’

  Or uni scarf? Same seat of learning. Eyes shining, she gave his arm a playful punch. ‘You, Mac Tyler, are a bloody genius.’

  ‘Not really, boss.’ Dead sombre, he shook his head.

  Burst my bubble, why don’t you? She frowned. ‘Why the hangdog look all of a sudden?’

  ‘Normally it would’ve been the first thing you thought of, Bev.’ He cut her a glance. ‘If your mind wasn’t crammed with … other things.’

  Red rag, bull, balled fists. Had he been told about her nocturnal visits to Curran? Had Oz or Powell tipped him the wink? Cool it, Bev, don’t bite. She took a deep breath, kept her voice casual. ‘Why not say what you mean, Mac?’

  ‘You don’t need it spelling out.’

  ‘No, go on.’

  ‘I’ve said enough.’

  ‘Too fucking right, asshole. Keep your fat neb out. Remember, Tyler, we all make mistakes.’

  ‘Yeah – and generally we live to regret them.’

  ‘Stop the fucking car,’ she screeched. ‘Now.’

  ‘Crying out loud woman, grow up for –’

  ‘Shut it. Look,’ she snapped, pointed straight ahead. ‘It’s him.’

  44

  Bev hit the ground running while the motor was still moving. Heard a clunk as it mounted the pavement. The guy up ahead heard it, too – heard something that put him on high alert, anyway. After whipping his head round, clocking Bev in pursuit, he took off like a bat on a jet. The split second their glances locked acted on her like a sharpened spur. Now convinced she had the perp in her sights, she lengthened her stride, hiked the pace, yelled, ‘Police, stop!’

  A few startled shoppers turned to gawp, lippy schoolkids gave her a slow handclap, a wino waved a can of Strong Brew near her face. They could throw in a rousing chorus of ‘Tiptoe Through the Tulips’ for all Bev cared, as long as they shifted their butts. They didn’t. Dodging bods, buggies, burkas, and dog doo, she powered down the narrow pavement, heart thumping, pulse whooshing, arms hammering up and down like pistons.

  Faces and shop fronts passed in fast-motion blur as she kept her gaze fixed on the tall skinny bloke a good ten, twelve metres ahead. Sweat poured down her flushed cheeks, dripped off her chin. Breathing hard, she’d none spare to shout again. Like it’d make a difference.

  Why didn’t somebody tackle him? Stick a leg out, grab onto his arm, anything to slow him down. And where the bloody hell was Mac?

  ‘Oy, bab?’ An old dear yelled in her slipstream. ‘When’ll it be on the telly?’

  Bev’s heart might’ve taken a dive at that point, only it was busy beating up her ribcage. Shame they weren’t filming a cop-show stunt. He’d be collared, cuffed and cowering in a cell by now, instead of leading her a not-so-merry dance.

  ‘Behind you, boss.’

  Too far behind, by the sound of it. And an asthmatic bear on forty a day would make less noise breathing. As for Bev, she’d soon be rejoining the gym. Again.

  Digging into reserves she didn’t know she had, she found a second wind and put on an extra spurt. Within seconds the mild stitch in her side grew to dagger proportions, but no pain, no … She narrowed her eyes. He’d lost his step, certainly lost the head start. Definitely gaining on him now. Come to momma, you little turd ball.

  Running at full pelt, she reached out, made a grab for his T-shirt. Missed. He ducked swiftly to the ground. Bev couldn’t halt the momentum, went flying over his arched back, landed spread-eagled smack bang in the middle of the pavement.

  Badly winded more than in great pain, she lay barely moving. Gingerly she lifted her head, caught a glint of steel in his hand as he disappeared down a side street with Mac bringing up the rear.

  She shot up. So wished she hadn’t. But shit. The guy was carrying. What if Mac didn’t know?

  Still desperately trying to catch her breath, she hauled herself to her feet. She couldn’t run if her life depended on it. But Mac’s? Hell, yes.

  Wincing with every intake of breath, Bev pulled up sharp at the corner. Bent virtually double, hands on hips, she raised her gaze to scope out the street. Twin rows of two-up, two-down grimy terraces, separated every so often by narrow entries that she knew gave on to a warren of yards and back alleys. Cops thought of them as rat-runs, for two-legged vermin.

  Eeny, meeny, miny, bloody mo. The creep and Mac could’ve hared off down any one of them by now. Narrowing her eyes, she slowly straightened. Looked at differently, the street had plenty of cover: bastard could be lying low. She wished to God she’d not left her bag in the car, could do with calling back-up, not to mention having a baton to hand. Fore-armed and sod the warned bit.

  Grimacing as a pain shot through her ribs, she ventured further. Council wheelie bins, beat-up motors and off-white Trannies impeded much of the view. Virtually every house had a set of wheels; overflowing bins lined both pavements, polluting the air with the stink of rancid fish and feck knew what else. A builder’s skip up ahead looked pretty chocka, might be worth taking a look. Necessity, invention, and all that shtick. Standing on tiptoe, she dragged out a wonky coffee table, snapped off a leg. Tested its weight in her palm. It’d do. Better than nothing in the arms stakes.

  A thin black cat picking at a chicken carcass hissed when she stole past. She hissed back in spades, kicked its ill-gotten spoils into the gutter. Striding on, makeshift weapon in hand, she darted glances left and right, checked out every passageway. Come on, Mac, where are you, love? If he’d relinquished the chase, she swore she’d not have a go at him, never bawl him out again. With the best will in the world, her partner was half as fit and twice as old as their prey. Mac, bless him, was more lumber than limber.

  Nothing stirred. Not a soul in sight. Loudest noise was the pulse in her ears. She felt like a sheriff in a western – High Noon, Dodge City, something of that ilk. All she needed was a bit of tumbleweed and the baddie showing up.

  Of the scenarios playing in her head, the best was that Mac had the bastard in cuffs up against a wall somewhere. Either that or he’d appear any minute, daft smile on his face, with the guy in tow. The worst? She swallowed. No. Best not go there.

  But surely if he could, he’d have radioed her by now? She wiped a forearm across her brow.

  Come on, Bev. Mac’s a big boy, knows how to take care of himself. Yeah, but. Unbidden images of the bastard’s blade skills flashed in her mind’s eye. If he’d harmed one hair of –

  Mac! She stifled a gasp, slapped a hand to her mouth. Mac’s desert boot lay twisted on its side at the terrace end. Even from where she stood, she could make out the familiar scuff marks. Took a few seconds longer to register the spots of blood.

  Hang fire? Go in? Procedure dictated she call back-up, get an ambulance. Withdraw to a place of safety. The perp could easy be lying in wait down there. And while she pissed around dithering, her partner bled out? Sod that for a game of soldiers.

  She raced down the gap. Mac lay sprawled face-down on filthy cracked brick tiles. She quickly glanced round, then knelt at his side, gently stroking his hair. ‘You okay, Mac? Where’d it hurt? Talk to me.’

  She couldn’t see a wound but there was too much blood for her liking. She scanned the back of the properties again, clocked dandelions poking through scrubby yellow grass, a kid’s bike with a flat tyre, a washing line full of sheets that still looked mucky. She clenched her fists: shame the bastard wasn’t still hanging round.

  ‘Don’t worry. You’re gonna be fine, Mac.’ She gently took his wrist, checked the pulse: steady like the breathing. Even so: ‘I need to get you out of here. Think you can move, mate?’

  Groaning, he turned his head to the side. ‘Give me a sec, boss. I’m okay.’

  ‘You’re not, mate.’ He needed hospital treatment, transfusion most like. With a bit of luck he’d have a phone on him she could use.

  ‘Still a bit groggy, that’s all.’ He struggled on to
his side, started easing himself upright.

  ‘Christ’s sake, Mac. Stay where you are. Look at the blood. You need an ambulance.’

  ‘Not me, boss. It’s not my blood.’

  45

  ‘He’ll need it seeing to, won’t he? We’d best start calling A&E departments.’ Powell sat back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin, lips a thin tight line.

  ‘It’s in hand, gaffer.’ Dazza and Pembers were already on it, they’d contact doctors’ surgeries and health drop-in centres, too, if need be.

  ‘I didn’t ask you, Morriss,’ he snapped, cutting Bev a withering glance. ‘You weren’t even on the spot when it happened … whatever “it” is.’ Groaning, Powell ran both hands down his face. ‘Christ, Tyler, on so many levels this is a nightmare.’

  Mac held out empty palms. ‘I’ve sorry, gaffer. I’ve told you what I know.’

  ‘Yeah and when it comes to the nitty-gritty – you know jack shit.’ Powell crushed a paper cup, slung it the bin.

  Bev caught Mac clench his jaw, opened her mouth to speak, clocked Powell’s thunder face, thought better of it. Seated alongside her partner opposite the DI felt like being a recalcitrant kid up before the headmaster. Except this was no classroom prank. They, or more accurately Mac, wouldn’t have to copy out lines. He could well be in detention later, though.

  Way things looked there might have to be an internal inquiry. If Mac was found culpable in any way for the guy’s injuries, he stood to lose his job, pension, even serve a sentence. It’d help if Mac could remember more than a vague idea of the turn of events.

  He’d shared the gist on the journey back to the nick. Against her better judgement, Bev had driven them to Highgate rather than straight to the hospital. Head injuries were unpredictable: Mac had a nasty-looking bump and still looked pretty woozy to Bev. In the wider scheme of things, the insult-to-injury parking ticket that had been slapped on the windscreen of their car paled into insignificance.

  Mac could recall hurling himself rugby-prop-style at the perp, both of them going down, but Mac must’ve hit his temple against the end wall on the way. As for the perp’s injuries, they could only assume the guy had come into contact with the blade somehow, but not so badly that he couldn’t make his escape while Mac was out of it.

  Way Bev saw it? It couldn’t happen to a nicer chap. Powell, probably under pressure from the brass, had a different viewpoint: if Mac didn’t have total recall, how could he be sure the perp’s wounds were accidental and/or self-inflicted? Bev shuffled in her seat. Like he’d try and waste someone and lie about it. As if a cop would try on something like that.

  ‘Talk about the blind leading the bloody blind.’ Powell’s laboured sigh wafted coffee breath across the desk.

  She bridled on her own account at the dig, never mind Mac’s. ‘Meaning what, exactly?’

  ‘Get off your high horse, Morriss.’ He flapped a hand. ‘The pair of you had the bastard in your sights and he ran rings round you. And that’s assuming you were after the right guy in the first place.’

  For feck’s sake. Course it was the right guy. She glanced at Mac who stared blank-faced at Powell. Maybe couldn’t trust himself to keep a civil tongue. No problem for her: ‘That is so frigging out of order.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what’s out of order:’ – the blond leaned forward – ‘whoever he is, he’s still at large, with possibly life-threatening injuries, and we’re back to square one because you both cocked up.’

  ‘Thanks for your support, mate.’

  ‘Don’t “mate” me, Morriss.’ He whacked the desk with the flat of his hand. ‘In case you’ve forgotten, it’s “sir”.’

  Mate? Heaven effing forfend. She curled a mental lip. Besides, they were hardly back at square one. An FSI team was out at Canon Street fine-tooth combing every inch, house-to-house inquiries were under way, and she’d called in the dog squad before leaving. With that amount of blood around, picking up the scent should be a walk in the park. Mac couldn’t have been unconscious for more than two, three minutes, and given Bev hadn’t exactly hung back on calling in the troops, the trail should still be warm.

  ‘It’s a bloody debacle.’ Powell sniffed. ‘As for the old dear phoning triple-nine to report an armed woman prowling outside her pad … ?’

  Bev shrugged. Shame the nosy old biddy hadn’t spotted the perp and Mac while she was at it. Or maybe she had? She made a mental note to have a word. ‘Table leg’s not exactly a lethal weapon.’ He shot her a glance. ‘Well is it? Sir.’

  ‘It is in the wrong hands. What the hell were you thinking, Morriss?’

  She could’ve banged on about stalking a dangerous nutter with a history of violence who was running scared and armed with a knife. She settled for: ‘I needed a means of defence.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Head cocked, he held her gaze. ‘You’d no intention of taking the law into your own hands?’

  She narrowed her eyes. If there wasn’t a double meaning in there, she was in the wrong job. ‘I’m a cop, for Christ’s sake. What do you take me for?’

  ‘I know what you are, Morriss. And I know exactly what you’re capable of.’

  ‘Unless you’re on firm ground,’ Mac broke the increasingly uneasy silence, ‘that’s a hell of an aspersion.’

  ‘Yes, it is. And if the perp croaks, doubtless you’ll be asked the same question, Tyler.’

  She’d had enough of this shit. ‘Are you suspending me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Am I off the inquiry?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are we done here?’

  ‘For now.’

  ‘Right.’ She reached down for her bag. ‘I’m off. Work to do.’

  ‘Bear in mind what I’ve said, Morriss.’

  ‘You bet. Sir.’

  They were at the door when Powell spoke again: ‘What’s the hurry? Sit down, Tyler. I want a word.’

  Bev leaned against the wall outside the DI’s office, arms folded, foot tapping. Powell was having a damn sight more than a word in there. She’d given up as a bad job pressing her ear against the door, only managed to catch the odd ‘gaffer’ or two. And the occasional bemused glance from passing cops.

  Odd gaffer. She frowned. You can say that again. Powell could be an almighty pain in the bum, but to come down on them both like that was weird. He’d barely given their side of the story the time of day, took it for granted they were at fault. What happened to innocent before guilty? Course he could be antsy in case the media got wind of the cock-up. She could see the headlines now: Half-Cock Cops; Pratfall Police; Not So Clever Dicks. Yeah, okay. Maybe she’d stick with the day job.

  Come to think of it, Powell hadn’t softened enough to crack a smile in there, let alone a gag. Sure, he was under pressure from the bosses. They were all desperate to get a result. He’d no call to blame the failure on her and Mac. She felt bad enough without the blond’s savaging. No one wanted the perp banged up more than Bev, and she’d virtually had him in her grasp – been close enough to smell his sweat, and still lost him.

  Leaving noises? ’Bout time, too. Arms still crossed, she pushed herself off the wall. Mac stepped out, closed the door, made no eye contact.

  ‘And get back to bloody work, Morriss,’ Powell shouted.

  Lip curled, Bev raised a middle finger at the wood. ‘So what gives, mate?’

  Walking side by side along the corridor, he told her he’d to go straight home, take a few days’ sick leave. She pulled a face. Christ, that was only one step up from gardening leave.

  ‘No way?’

  ‘Yes way.’

  ‘Hold on, Mac,’ – still walking, she laid a hand on his arm – ‘is this what you want?’

  ‘Like I have a choice?’ Christ, he sounded downbeat. ‘Knives are out, boss.’

  Thoughts racing, she followed him through the fire door, clocked his bald spot as they took the back stairs two at a time. In the car park she asked if he wanted her to have a word with Powell, see if she could swing it
for him to stay.

  ‘It’ll do no good. Depends how this shit storm pans out.’ He dug a hand in his jeans pocket, hung his head. ‘Anyway, maybe it’s for the best.’ Despondent, downbeat, defeatist. So not Mac.

  ‘What you mean? For the best. Don’t be so daft.’

  ‘What if I’m getting too old for this game?’ He was tired, he said, kept making mistakes; twice just recently he’d failed to nail the perp, let himself down, let her down, let the public down.

  You and me both. She softened her voice. ‘We all make mistakes, Mac.’

  ‘So you said.’

  She frowned. ‘I did?’

  ‘Just after you called me an asshole and told me to keep my fat neb out.’

  Bump on the head hadn’t wiped out everything, then. ‘Come on, Mac, I didn’t mean –’

  ‘Leave it, boss. There’s stuff you don’t know.’

  ‘So tell me.’

  ‘Some other time, maybe.’ He turned to leave. ‘I’ll catch you later.’

  ‘Not if I see you first, mate,’ she called, trying to make light of it. Her eyes welled as she watched him trundle across the tarmac to his motor and drive off. She walked back inside, blinking furiously, telling herself she had dust in her eyes. Without her partner-in-crime she felt bereft already.

  Partner-in-crime? Talk about a Freudian slip. Eyes narrowed, her hand stilled on her office door. Unless …?

  Could Mac’s amnesia be selective – and dead convenient?

  46

  ‘We’ve found him, sarge.’

  Come in, Daz. Oh, you are. Bev glanced up from the screen. Even without the tense look on Darren’s face, she’d no need to ask who he meant. Where and what state the perp might be in wasn’t so obvious, but Daz’s tone didn’t denote anything good. ‘And?’

  ‘He’s in hospital, the Queen Elizabeth.’

  Bev rolled back her chair. ‘I’ll get my bits. You can drive.’

  ‘There’s no rush, sarge.’ He raked a hand through his hair. ‘He ain’t going nowhere.’

  Shit. If the guy was a goner, Mac could be in an even deeper pile of ordure.